


Wash These Ghosts Clean

by Sidara



Series: Rattle Loose Your Bones [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, Crossover, Gen, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidara/pseuds/Sidara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say once you leave there is no going back. They say you can’t go home again.</p>
<p>Stiles thinks <i>they</i> don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash These Ghosts Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Still non-linear and told from Stiles’ limited pov. Again, about 90% Teen Wolf and 10% Avengers, and I still can't believe I wrote this crossover.
> 
> Much love and appreciation to my awesome beta Nightwalker, who laughed at me when I first told her about the idea, then threatened bodily harm if I didn't write it. She knows how to motivate me.

_Now_

Stiles Stilinski was sixteen when his life took a hard left turn down strange avenues.

There were days since that walk in the woods with Scott all those years ago that Stiles didn’t think he’d live to see twenty-five, much less thirty, and he was two years past that milestone now. He felt older than that, had the scars (physically, mentally, emotionally) of a man twice his age weighing him down. But those scars made him who he was, made him into something other people took notice of, took caution of. Stiles wouldn’t trade the scars for anything in the world, not when they’d bought him the only thing that mattered to him.

Stiles never thought he’d live half his life based out of New York City, wandering the Eastern Seaboard with his baseball bat, watching over the people and creatures who needed limits in a too-modern world. This wasn’t the Dark Ages anymore. Slaughter was frowned upon on the six o’clock evening news and it was best to cut those stories off at the knees (or hooves or head or claws, Stiles wasn’t picky).

Back when he was a teenager, Stiles certainly couldn’t envision himself having a set power lunch date with one of the most powerful lawyers in New York City on the first Monday of every month. Nicole, for all the faint wrinkles creasing her eyes and mouth more and more every year, was aging gracefully, and Stiles wasn’t above taking a beautiful older woman out to lunch on his dime or Tony Stark’s Black American Express card.

They picked a different restaurant every month. Sometimes they ate at the most expensive tables in Manhattan. Other times they indulged their cravings for burgers and fries in greasy wrappers. No matter the place, the two always talked business.

“You look like you have something on your mind,” Nicole said. She picked up a piece of fried fish with her fingers and poured malted vinegar all over it. She’d already decimated half her fries and a quarter of her beer.

What Stiles loved about Tiana’s mother was that she clearly did not give a fuck what other people thought of her. Older black woman in classy, expensive designer clothes eating with her fingers in an kitschy Irish pub? You opened your mouth to comment at your peril. There was absolutely nothing wrong with using what god gave you in the first place, Nicole liked to say. Starting with your brain against the ignorant assholes in the world.

Stiles popped a fry into his mouth. “You could say that.”

“Tony running you ragged again? I hear Stark Industries’ stocks are down a little.”

“The Avengers kind of decimated parts of Miami in their fight with A.I.M. and that group’s Godzilla-wannabe water robot last week. Namor got his feelings hurt when he was relegated to playing back-up and sort of flooded South Beach with storm surge, just without the storm. The Avengers took the blame for all of it and you know how the media likes to dog Tony’s heels.”

Nicole quirked a smile at him. “So Tony is running you ragged.”

Stiles slouched in his seat and groaned. “You would not believe the amount of bitchiness he has thrown at the press lately. I think the paparazzi are just doing it for love of the verbal abuse at this point but I’m the one who has to smooth things over.”

“Tony does have a particular way with words.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you tell me why we’re having lunch together on a Friday.”

Stiles picked up a fry and dragged it through the ketchup on his plate. He ate it in two bites and suddenly felt more than full. He shoved the plate of food away and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. “I think it’s time.”

Nicole looked at him across the pitted wooden table that had seen better days and nodded slowly. “All right.”

“Not going to try to make me change my mind?”

“You’re more stubborn than my daughter, Stiles. I know a losing battle when I see one. Besides, we’re better off now than we were before you joined up,” Nicole said.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. working out okay?”

“I enjoy making our brave men and women in uniform do my bidding when I need them to.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Nicole reached across the table to curve her hand around his, squeezing tightly. The smile she gave him was gentle and worn, a lifetime of secrets in her dark brown eyes that he shared. “You’ve more than earned this.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, suddenly finding it hard to speak around the lump in his throat. “For everything.”

“No thanks needed. You know that’s not how we do things.” Nicole let him go and broke off another piece of her fried fish to dunk it in the tartar sauce. “I’m not telling Tiana.”

Stiles winced. “I was kind of hoping you would. Please, Nicole? Please?”

“No.”

“I will buy you a bottle of your favorite wine from Paris. Hell, I’ll buy you a ticket there for you to pick it up in person.”

Nicole chuckled, reaching for the malt vinegar again. “Man up, Stilinski. You’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that!” He gestured wildly at her, an earnest, pleading look on his face. “You don’t understand. Tiana has _ways_ of hiding bodies.”

“Oh, but I do. Who do you think taught her?”

*

_Four years ago_

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“You’re not getting sick. You’re getting married,” Stiles said as he expertly knotted his blue silk tie in the mirror.

Scott was twisting his tie into a wrinkled knot around his hands, not around his throat. Stiles made an affronted sound and snatched it from him. Scott gave him a faint, sickly smile. “Sorry.”

Stiles stared critically at the silk, smoothing out the wrinkles with a little magic. “Dude, everything will be fine. Don’t worry.”

“You don’t know that,” Scott protested.

Stiles shoved at Scott’s shoulder, forcing the other man to turn around and face the full length mirror. Stiles wrapped the tie around Scott’s neck under his white dress shirt collar, leaning up against his best friend to tie a double Windsor knot for him. Scott tugged on the tie when he finished and Stiles swatted at his hands.

“Stop it. You’ll mess it up and I’m not fixing it for you if you ruin all my hard work,” Stiles said.

“Yes you will.”

Stiles rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, because it was true. He totally would fix it. “If alcohol had any effect on you, I’d shove some down your throat right now. The bottle of sixty year old Macallan I got Allison as her pre-wedding present is wasted on you. I hope her, Lydia, and Erica are putting it to good use right now.”

Scott perked up at that. “Oh man. She’s gonna love you for that.”

Tony had introduced Allison to the joys of fine whiskey on her second visit to Avengers Tower (the first visit she spent holed up with Clint talking archery, of which no one was surprised) and Stiles did his diligence as best friend by proxy of making sure she only had the best on hand to indulge herself in.

“I know, so long as Erica doesn’t let her get drunk. No one wants to look wasted on their wedding day. Besides, Allison is going to love you more than the whiskey in about thirty minutes when you finally say your vows. Don’t worry, I’ve got tissue and Lydia has the make-up kit ready,” Stiles said, taking Scott’s suit jacket off the hangar.

Scott slid his arms into the sleeves, letting Stiles tug the suit jacket into proper position. When it had come to dressing the girls for the wedding, Lydia had that locked down. She’d left Stiles in charge of the guys and between the two of them, they managed to outfit a pretty rocking wedding party.

(“We’re wearing McQueen,” Lydia had said six months ago.

“I don’t like the men’s fall line. We’re doing Gucci.”

“Boring.”

“Classic.”)

Scott and Allison had been pretty laidback about the details of planning the wedding (hence why Lydia and Stiles held cross-country Skype planning dates almost weekly leading up to the big day). It was the guest list which ended up being the problem. Anytime hunters and werewolves were in the same room together shit was bound to go down.

Stiles stepped closer and pressed one hand firmly between Scott’s shoulder blades. “Scott, buddy. Listen to me. Nothing is going to happen today. I won’t let it.”

Scott breathed through his nose, brown eyes staring down at his clenched hands before her forcibly shook himself loose. “Promise?”

“You want me to pinky swear? Would that make you feel better?”

Scott snorted out a rough laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Chris accepted an invitation to the wedding.”

“I know. He’s walking Allison down the aisle.”

“He still doesn’t like me.”

“Yeah? Well, screw him. He’s the one who walked away, not you. Let him grovel, because you know he will, but no one’s going to start any fights while I’m handling security. You just enjoy getting married.” Stiles smiled widely, a pleased look in his eyes. “You’re no longer flying solo, man. My little wolf’s all grown up.”

“Idiot. What are you talking about? I haven’t flown solo since we were like, five years old,” Scott retorted, snagging his cufflinks off the hotel dresser.

They both pretended there weren’t years in between where their friendship had been strained over the different ways they fought to keep their families and the pack safe. That was in the past now and today was about new beginnings. Besides, they’d made their amends after college and they’d had time to relearn how to live with each other in their lives again.

“If I had to give you up to anyone, at least it’s to someone who appreciates your eccentricities, of which there are many. Your whole high school sweetheart history is enough to give me diabetes or a heart attack, I’m not sure which.”

Scott grinned crookedly at Stiles before it tempered into something wistful. “We’re not much different than you and Derek.”

“Not you too. You know what my dad asked about when I came home for Christmas? Grandkids, Scott. _Grandkids_. Like I haven’t had my fill of children chasing after Tony all these years. I don’t even want to think about the conversations my dad has been having with Derek,” Stiles groaned.

“He misses you. They both do. Don’t you think it’s time you came home?” Scott asked earnestly.

Stiles brushed some non-existent lint off Scott’s shoulders. “Come on. The limo should be out front by now.”

The church Allison and Scott had chosen as the venue was Scott’s mother’s place of prayer. She’d broken away from the Catholic Church after divorcing Scott’s dad and become an Episcopalian. The church itself was on the small side, located in a residential neighborhood a few miles from the center of town, which suited the intimate nature of the ceremony perfectly. The wedding party wasn’t very big and the guest list barely topped fifty people. Melissa was there to greet them at the main doors when Scott and Stiles arrived, a tense, polite smile on her face.

“Boys,” was all she needed to say.

“Where do I need to be?” Stiles asked her, expression shutting down into a cold, emotionless mask that made Melissa wince.

“Inside. Chris isn’t handling it as well as he should. If I was Derek, I’d have punched someone by now.”

Stiles nodded sharply, squared his shoulders, and walked into the church. He saw Isaac standing just past the doors in the center aisle and Stiles jerked his head at the entrance. “Go watch Scott. I’ll handle this.”

“Boyd and your dad checked them for weapons before they came into the church. Got quite an arsenal in your dad’s trunk now,” Isaac said by way of greeting.

“We’ll add them to our collection,” Stiles said, heading for the group of people clustered together on the right hand side of the church.

The hunters had formed a loose half-circle around Derek and to anyone else in the place, they looked like they were just an ordinary group of people catching up before the wedding started. Except they weren’t and a person would have to be extremely thick when it came to social cues to miss the tension in the group.

Stiles sauntered into Derek’s personal space with an icy smile on his face. He slid an arm over Derek’s shoulders, feeling Derek’s arm curve automatically around his waist, pulling him in.

“Chris,” Stiles said, words coming out sharp as knives. “It’s been awhile. Why don’t you tell me who you brought along as your plus one too many?”

Allison’s father hadn’t aged well. The life of a hunter was hard but it was even harder when family abandoned you. Stiles had to give Chris some credit for not fucking up his daughter even more than he already had by refusing to walk her down the aisle. Him bringing along hunters who mostly weren’t family to an event that should be full of joy, not bloodshed, wasn’t earning him in any points in Stiles’ book though.

“Stiles,” Chris said, voice flat, but the look in his eyes was wary. “You made it.”

“I’m the best man. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Figured you would.”

Chris’ mouth thinned to a hard line. “Allison is my daughter.”

“And she’s part of our pack. Or don’t you remember the reason why you haven’t talked to her for years?”

“Watch your mouth,” a man about Chris’ age in a rumpled suit said. He took a half-step forward, one hand reaching for his pocket.

Stiles wasn’t about to find out if his father and Boyd had missed any weapons in their stop-and-frisk part of the pre-wedding prep. Instead, he simply pointed at the hunter and said, “Freeze.”

Stiles used magic to bind the man into stillness, very carefully forming in his mind the limits of the spell. Not the heart, not the lungs, not any of the involuntary systems the brain controlled. Just the man’s forward motion, which nearly resulted in him falling on his face and breaking his nose from the abrupt paralysis of his body. Chris grabbed at him with a firm hand, holding the man steady.

“Let him go, Stiles,” Chris said through clenched teeth.

“Rules, Chris. I know you read the email I sent you on proper conduct of hunters in our territory,” Stiles said bitingly.

“And I know you got my response. You can’t be pack and be a warden at the same time. Your laws don’t allow it.”

Chris’ words had every single hunter going still and quiet for a couple of seconds before they moved again. Except for the idiot Stiles still had wrapped up in his magic.

“He’s not breaking any laws,” Derek said mildly, though the smile he gave Chris was sharper than usual. His teeth helped with that. “Stiles is pack today.”

“Damn right I am,” Stiles muttered.

Derek squeezed Stiles’ hip, gaze sliding sideways. “Let the hunter go. I’m not paying damages for a broken church today.”

“Fine. I promise not to start a fight if everyone minds their manners.” Stiles broke the spell, watching the hunter stumble a bit before he found his balance again. Stiles arched an eyebrow, taking in the group as a whole. “Trust me, it won’t be pretty if you don’t.”

“And what could you possibly do to us when your pack can’t risk revealing what they really are and you can’t take sides?” a pretty, dark-haired woman standing at the edge of the group asked derisively.

“Oh, not me,” Stiles said brightly, grinning wolfishly. “My plus one.”

Stiles jerked his thumb at the fashionably dressed black woman who stood behind him and a little to the side. Tiana didn’t bother looking up from her smartphone. “This is neutral territory, ladies and gentlemen,” Tiana said in a bored voice. “If I need to impress that fact upon all of you before the ceremony even starts, I will be pissed as all hell if you make me miss the wedding because I was cutting off your balls, real and metaphorically speaking, behind the church.”

Stiles stared Chris down when the other man looked like he might argue. “Show your friends and your family to their seats, Chris. The bride’s side, because you sure as hell aren’t welcome on the groom’s side.”

“Is she—” Chris said.

“A warden?” Tiana interrupted, finally lifting her head to look at the group, a brief, fiery light filling her dark eyes. “Take a wild guess.”

They didn’t. They took several seats instead.

(When Allison walked down the aisle after Erica and Lydia went first, holding on tight to her father’s arm and a bouquet that held a picture of her mom in a locket hanging from the lace, Scott leaned in close to his best man without taking his eyes off his soon to be wife. “Thank you.”

“What are best friends for?” Stiles replied. “Now don’t fuck up your vows.”)

*

_Seven years ago_

Stiles had spent his formative years running with werewolves who had a tendency to creep up on him when he least expected it. He’d spent just as many years interacting with a couple of world-class assassins who moved without making a sound by default and loved to get the drop on him for their own amusement.

Avengers Tower was well-guarded through Tony’s obsessive need to upgrade his security every other week or so. Not to mention the line of mountain ash Stiles had poured around the entire level his apartment suite was on, held in place inside clear plastic tubing beneath metal flooring. His magic would alert him to any breach from below by supernatural means and it was worth the headache to put the spell in place.

It didn’t do jack shit against assassins with zero supernatural quirks for his magic to grab onto and keep out.

Coming into his apartment, Stiles immediately knew he wasn’t alone. Instinct honed to a sharp edge for survival had him throwing himself to the side, bringing his bat up for defense. The lights flicked on and Stiles froze in mid-swing, feeling his joints lock up as his heart kicked into higher gear, flooding his veins with adrenaline he did not need.

Bucky Barnes seemed more amused than anything else.

“Holy god, _bells_. You people need bells,” Stiles swore. He clutched one hand at the front of his red hoodie and glared at the assassin, baseball bat still raised threateningly between them. “You’re worse than Natasha.”

“No I’m not,” Bucky drawled in his old-school Brooklyn accent.

“Natasha _knocks_ when I’m home.”

“I did knock. You weren’t home so I got JARVIS to let me in.” Bucky eyed Stiles up and down, taking in his bloody clothes and baseball bat that had seen better days. “I thought you were Tony’s personal assistant?”

“I am.”

“A murdering personal assistant in a red hoodie works for Tony Stark? Does his publicist know about you?”

“It’s a thing. Warden. Look, can I clean up and then you can, I don’t know, talk to me? Interrogate me? Dried blood makes my skin itch if I don’t wash it off.” Bucky arched an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Stiles took that as his non-verbal cue to flee. “All right then. Uh, make yourself comfortable, I guess?”

He hightailed it out of the living room for the master bathroom and the glorious water pressure it promised.

Stiles didn’t take as long a shower as he wanted to. He had an assassin wandering around his apartment he had to deal with and if he’d learned anything about the Avengers, it was to never leave them unsupervised when there was the possibility they might get bored. (There was that time with Thor and the Eiffel Tower that everyone tacitly agreed not to mention outside of being drunk.) Stiles left his bedroom after dumping his clothes in the special hamper that went to S.H.I.E.L.D. for disposal purposes and leaving his baseball bat in the tub to dry.

Bucky was standing in the living room where Stiles had left him, eerily still as he took everything in. His metal arm shined dully in the light, an engineering marvel Tony had made to replace the old hardware. Stiles didn’t know why Bucky was here, but he resigned himself to once again having his place invaded by Avengers when all he wanted to do was sleep.

“Is anyone dying?” Stiles asked bluntly.

“On our end or yours?” Bucky shot back.

Stiles waved a hand at the ceiling. “Avengers-wise.”

“No.”

“Okay.” Stiles paused, staring at Bucky and trying not to feel like he had a target painted on his chest. “Not to be rude, but why are you here?”

Because Stiles was pretty damn sure Bucky barely knew he existed. The former Winter Soldier, current part-time Avenger, all around go-to guy for killing people dead, had popped back into everyone’s lives through a shitstorm mess of subterfuge, Cold War science projects (a little less science, a little more unholy terror, according to Tony), and broken memories. Stiles had only heard what happened secondhand through Tony, but it was more than enough for him to be glad he officially worked for Tony and not the Avengers.

That was a mess he wouldn’t have wanted to clean up, not for all the money in the world.

“Tony isn’t very forthcoming with words,” Bucky said.

“You’re kidding, right? Tony never shuts up.”

“Exactly.”

Stiles knew what Bucky meant but he wasn’t about to break confidences with his boss simply because someone who could blow his brains out at a mile easy was sitting within ten feet of him.

“I’m too tired to play guessing games. Could you just tell me what you want and I’ll see if I can get it for you?” Stiles asked, rubbing at his eyes.

“Tony said you were a good PA. Who’d you murder, kid?” Bucky asked.

“What I do on my downtime isn’t anyone’s business but my own.”

“You sure about that? You didn’t paint a pretty picture when you came through the front door earlier. If anyone saw you on the street, they’d report you.”

“They’d have to be able to see me first. Which they didn’t.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change. “Because of magic.”

“I don’t pull rabbits out of hats.”

Bucky moved, tossing Stiles something that he treated like a live bomb and gracelessly dropped onto the carpeted floor, half-tempted to dive for cover. Turned out it was just a plain old silver Zippo lighter.

“Tony said you knew a couple of tricks. Why don’t you show me?”

And of course, of _course_ Tony would have shared that little secret with Steve’s best friend. Stiles seriously thought about leaving the lighter where it was and walking out of the room to go reacquaint himself with his bed but again, assassin with a gun.

“So much worse than Natasha,” Stiles muttered under his breath.

He picked the lighter off the floor, tossing it from hand to hand for a few seconds. Then he whispered the levitation spell, filling the lighter with his magic and belief. The Zippo shook against his hand before rising into the air. Wiggling his fingers, Stiles sent the lighter into a figure eight spin above his palm, zooming around like a drunken bird.

“Telekinesis,” Bucky said after a moment.

“No. Magic. I’m not a mutant or alien, just a witch with a spark and a calling.” Stiles shrugged, reached up to grab the Zippo form its flight path, broke the spell, and tossed it back to Bucky. “Is that all you wanted to see? Parlor tricks?”

“What you washed off tonight wasn’t a parlor trick.”

“Nope. Still not your business.”

“I’m making it my business.”

“Why?” Stiles grated out.

“Because you’re Tony’s and the Starks never learned to not break the things entrusted to their care.”

Stiles didn’t have a big enough ego to think he even pinged on Bucky’s radar for the assassin to be worried about him in any way. This wasn’t about him at all. “You’re talking about Steve.”

“Guess you’re not just a pretty face.”

“You should see my boyfriend.”

Bucky squinted at him but Stiles wasn’t fooled by the other man’s blasé appearance. “You kind of even sound like Tony.”

“I’ve been working for him for years. Some things wear off on a person.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that.”

Stiles sat down in the nearest chair, running a hand through his damp hair. “You should really talk to Pepper about this.”

“I already spoke with Pepper. Frankly, that dame terrifies me. No wonder why Tony is always ducking her calls.”

Stiles scoffed. “She’s not that bad.”

(She could be. She really could be. Stiles always found himself wanting to build a shrine in her name to worship her awesomeness when Pepper ran roughshod over powerful men the world over simply because she _could_.

He kind of wanted to be her more than Tony when he grew up.)

Bucky gave him a very judging look, to which Stiles just shook his head. “You’re Steve’s best friend and she’s one of Tony’s. You really should call her up again and then track down Colonel Rhodes.”

“I plan on it. Doesn’t change the fact that Pepper is biased.”

Stiles laughed, the sound sticking in his throat. “Honestly? So am I, and I’ve made a career out of trying not to be. Most people are biased when it comes to Tony. He either rubs people the wrong way immediately or he rubs them the wrong way later on. There’s really no escaping the fact that Tony is an abrasive asshole even when he’s trying not to be.”

“But you still work for him.”

“When it matters, Tony is the textbook definition of loyal,” Stiles said quietly.

Bucky seemed to mull Stiles’ words over in his head. Or he was watching dust motes. Stiles couldn’t tell because the other man was holding himself so still it was beginning to creep Stiles out and he couldn’t read Bucky’s face or body language at all.

“What’s a warden? I’ve heard that term bandied about at S.H.I.E.L.D. before,” Bucky said, abruptly changing the subject.

“My other job.” Bucky kept looking at him and Stiles tried not to squirm. “I monitor people and…monsters, for lack of a better word, and I execute them when they break a set of laws that aren’t on any books you know of.”

“That what you were doing tonight?”

“A group of sirens was making trouble off the edge of Battery Park. They didn’t heed the warnings I gave them last week about not chomping on tourists so I made an example of one tonight and the rest went swimming out to sea,” Stiles said, going for the truth.

“Huh,” Bucky said after a moment. “Not the weirdest story I’ve ever heard, but okay.”

Bucky headed for the door and Stiles stared after him with a confused look on his face. “Is that all you wanted? Just to talk about Tony?”

“You can judge a man all you want by how they act face to face with you, but the best way to learn their true mettle other than on the battlefield is to meet their friends.”

And with that, Bucky left the apartment. Stiles felt like he walked away from making an enemy for life by the skin of his teeth.

“JARVIS, make a note,” Stiles said as he headed for bed. “Tony owes me so hard for this.”

“Of course, Stiles. I shall remind you in the morning, along with items one through twenty-seven on your to-do list,” JARVIS replied through the speakers embedded in the walls of the apartment.

Stiles face-planted onto his bed and groaned, telling himself he wasn’t moving for at least twelve hours or really, really good coffee.

*

_Now_

“I’m leaving.”

Tony looked up at him through a see-through wall of holograms and code, the music in the lab loud enough to shake anything not bolted down. “What?”

“I said I’m leaving,” Stiles shouted over the noise.

“JARVIS, cut the music.” Silence abruptly descended and Tony leaned back in his chair, swiveling it from side to side a bit. He waved away the holograms until nothing was between them. “Could you repeat that?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving as in taking another leave of absence or leaving as in leaving-leaving?”

“Leaving as in I quit, Tony.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. Nope, sorry, denied.”

“Tony—”

“You can’t quit. It’s not allowed. I had Pepper write it up in the company bylaws when we updated them last year.” Stiles gave him a disbelieving look and Tony rolled his eyes. “Okay, so I didn’t put that into the bylaws but I should have. You can’t _quit_ , Stiles. But you _can_ leave.”

Stiles made a questioning sound as he moved aside a toolbox so he could sit on the work table. “I can’t work for you from the West Coast. That’s not how the position of a personal assistant works.”

“Stark Industries has offices in Los Angeles and San Francisco. You could commute. I’ll give you a plane.”

“I don’t want a plane.”

“Too late. Plane. God knows we’ve got a few extra in the fleet. JARVIS, get on that for me, will you?”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replied.

Stiles shook his head. “I can’t run your life from California. It’s not going to happen, Tony.”

“Who said anything about running my life? You know more about my company than half my C-level officers on five continents do, excluding Pepper. You think I’d have you conferencing me from California about my latest meeting?” Tony snorted derisively. “I’m shifting some of SI’s design manufacturing to Los Angeles and the more delicate code work to San Francisco. Those cities have bigger ports and more accessibility to Asia for my company’s current needs. You’ve got a job in either city in an executive position waiting for you when you get tired of small towns and trees. You think I’d trust just anyone to help oversee my company’s livelihood?”

“Tony,” Stiles said weakly, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. “I can’t take a job like that from you.”

“You can commute. Hell, you can telecommute half the week for all I care. You’re good at yelling at me from halfway across the world through video and a phone and forging my signature. I know you’ll excel at applying that same anal retentive perfectionist streak on your minions.”

“I don’t want minions.”

Tony smirked at him, a smug look in his eyes. “I don’t hear you saying no.”

“You’re seriously five years old, aren’t you?” Stiles leveled an accusing glare at Tony. “We both know I’m not qualified for this.”

“You sell yourself short. What have I told you that?”

It was Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes.

“I mean it,” Tony said, losing some of his manic cheer in favor of a more serious tone. “The job is yours. You know I don’t like losing talented people and you can bet the fantastically huge bonus I’m giving you that S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t let you quit consulting for them.”

“Oh.” Stiles went a little pale in the face. “Oh, shit. I’d have to give my resignation to Fury, wouldn’t I?”

Tony didn’t bother to hide his shit-eating grin. “In person.”

“Okay, yeah. That’s not going to happen.”

“If you’re staying on for Fury, then you’re staying on for me. Take some time off first, though. Go ravish that wolf of yours in celebration.” Tony got to his feet and stretched, spine cracking. Then he clapped his hands together and pointed at Stiles. “This requires a drink and a party. You aren’t leaving without a party.”

“I’m not planning my own going away party, Tony.”

“Would I make you do that?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right, I would.” They stared at each other for a few seconds before Tony grinned conspiratorially. “Pepper?”

Stiles smiled, the decision to call Pepper for help one last time a bittersweet moment that he held onto for a few seconds more. “Pepper.”

*

_Three years ago_

He remembered the screams of the dead and the call of the horns. The way the thunder sounded in the night, like a thousand running footsteps of those driven by a nightmare through the sky.

He remembered how it felt when his soul was nearly pulled from his body, the way it clung to his skin with the thinnest of threads.

_You can’t have me._

He remembered speaking words, a warning, that nothing and no one heeded. Laughter rang through his memory; cold and mocking and fractured with the sound of an eldritch god. Because if you went chasing the Wild Hunt, then it was your own damn fault if you were folded into its ranks, leaving behind mortal flesh and bone for the cold of eternal night.

But Stiles was anchored by more than fragile human skin. There was duty, and a price he hadn’t paid in full yet, a debt owed to blood. He couldn’t leave, didn’t want to, but the Wild Hunt wasn’t something that offered a choice. It simply took.

The children he’d been trying to save from soul-trafficking witches never stood a chance. Stiles was so, so lucky he knew a god.

America was a strange country for the supernatural. Immigrants had carried their dreams and religions to her shores for centuries, forcing gods and monsters alike to live side by side when their countries of origins were separated by thousands of miles, scattered across the world. Thor might not have been from Earth but he knew the myths that humanity cradled in their prayers.

He’d heard Stiles’ after all, when death was a stone’s throw away on some lonely back road of Tennessee.

Belief was power. So was prayer, and Stiles had prayed with everything he had that night to keep living.

He assumed that was the only reason he was still breathing.

The quiet beep of medical machinery crept its way through his consciousness; an annoying sound he couldn’t ignore any longer. He catalogued the aches and pains of his body, all of it feeling like it wasn’t his, as if he weren’t anchored right in his bones, in his soul. There was a distinct possibility he might not be.

“You need to stop doing this.”

Stiles turned his face towards that achingly familiar voice, forcing his eyes open. He blinked blearily at where Derek sat in a hardback chair, clothing rumpled, looking like he hadn’t shaved in days. The dark circles under his eyes were proof enough he hadn’t slept much, either.

“Hey,” Stiles croaked out.

Derek snagged the cup of water with a straw off the nearby table and pressed it to Stiles’ mouth. “Drink. Slowly. You’ve been out of it for awhile.”

“How long?”

“Drink, Stiles.”

He drank. The water was ice-cold, tasted rancid, but he swallowed it anyway. Stiles knew what magical trauma felt like, what the symptoms were, how everything felt just a little sideways, a little off. This, right here, was the worst he’d ever been through. Only time would cure him but the good medicine could keep the edge off. The fuzziness in his head was as much from his fritzed out magic as it was the morphine.

When he finished with the water, Derek took the cup away. Stiles tilted his head back, taking in the sight of the metal ceiling, dimmed lights, and the narrow dimension of the room. “S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Derek nodded, tucking one of Stiles’ hand between both of his. “Helicarrier.”

Stiles squinted at him. “They let you on?”

“Me and your dad.” Derek squeezed Stiles’ hand gently. “He’s taking the day shift. I’ve got night.”

“Mess is out of ice-cream,” Stiles said muzzily.

“Tony told us what happened. You almost died, Stiles.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you almost _did_ ,” Derek snarled.

Stiles reached for Derek with his free hand, careful of the I.V., and tugged the werewolf closer with arms that felt like jelly. Derek went willingly, practically climbing into the medical bed with him. Derek wormed his arms around Stiles’ body, tucked his face against the curve of Stiles’ neck, and breathed. It felt like heat enveloped Stiles and he tried to pull Derek in even closer.

“Sorry,” Stiles whispered.

“No, you’re not.”

“Not sorry I took the job. Sorry I made you worry.”

“I wish you’d stop.”

“I can’t.”

“When?” Derek asked hoarsely, very carefully holding onto Stiles.

The words were difficult for Stiles to form, but he spoke them. “Not yet.”

Derek sucked in a deep breath, swallowing back all the arguments Stiles knew he’d see in the other man’s eye if they were having this out face to face. Derek choked everything down and pressed a faint, sickly smile against Stiles’ throat. “Okay.”

Even after all these years together and apart, Derek still trusted Stiles to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurt. It shouldn’t have made Stiles feel like such a shitty person, but it did.

*

_Two years ago_

“I threatened to kill him,” Erica said with a weary, proud smile.

“What do you mean, threatened?” Boyd retorted. “I had puncture wounds in my arms from your claws. Kept having to feign needing to get some air in order to wash off the blood.”

“What do you mean feigning needing to get some air? You looked like you were going to pass out a few times in the delivery room.”

“I wasn’t going to pass out!”

Stiles pressed a kiss to little Kelsey Boyd’s tiny cheek and nosed at the curly hair crowning her head. “Your parents always do this, just so you know. It’s normal, so don’t freak out when they try to one-up each other over the little things, like changing your diaper.”

“Are you badmouthing us to our daughter, Stiles?” Erica demanded from her hospital bed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just telling her the truth,” Stiles said breezily.

Lydia made grabby hands at Stiles. “Quit hogging the baby and give me my niece, Stiles. It’s my turn to hold her.”

Stiles scowled at her, but Lydia just gave him her patented _bitch, please, do as I say_ look. Pretty much everyone in the pack was trained to obey it.

Stiles cuddled Kelsey for a few extra seconds before passing the newborn over to Lydia. While she and Jackson admired the newest member of the pack, Stiles squeezed past Scott and Allison to lean down and give Erica a hug.

“You and Boyd do good work,” he said.

“Right?” Erica pulled back, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled. “I can’t believe I’m a mom.”

“First pack baby! You realize we’re going to spoil her rotten, right?”

Boyd snorted. “Did you see the nursery and playroom Derek put together in his house? We don’t even live there anymore and he’s got a room for her.”

“Not yet,” Stiles said. “I came straight from the airport. I’m sure it’s appropriately decked out with toys and if not, I will rectify that this weekend.”

“Kelsey is barely one day old.”

“You are never too old for toys.”

“Never,” Scott agreed.

Stiles had to twist around in order to fist bump him.

The private maternity room was on the small side, made even smaller by the amount of people squeezed inside it. Not to mention the balloons that nearly covered the ceiling, flowers on every available surface, and cards stacked in a pile on the small, wheeled table that could swing over the bed.

“Okay, I need to get going,” Allison said, using Scott as leverage to get to her feet. She was in her Park Ranger uniform, the tan shirt and olive green pants neatly pressed, wide brimmed hat hanging off the hook on the back of the bathroom door. “I’ll be back tonight after my shift.”

Stiles watched as Allison gave both Erica and Boyd a hug, the three of them easy in each other’s spaces now. It took years for them to reach this point, for Allison to give an apology that the other two could accept. The pack had grown tighter once they’d fixed their own individual issues. It took time but things had leveled out for everyone. Stiles measured that progress every time he came home, weighing it against his own internal requirements no one knew about.

Scott stood up to give Allison a goodbye kiss before she walked out of the room. “I’ll pick up dinner after I close the office tonight.”

Deaton had made good on his promise and brought Scott into his practice once Scott graduated from vet school. Stiles knew Scott couldn’t be happier with his job, nor Allison with hers. Everyone in the pack was doing what they loved, even if Boyd was the only one still (technically) in school. But medical school took a long time to complete and everyone in the pack was rooting for him. Boyd had just finished his four years of residency training but still had another year or two to go for his fellowship training in trauma surgery. Luckily, he was able to finish that at Beacon Hills General instead of in Sacramento.

It made it easier for him and Erica, especially now with Kelsey and because Erica was a Sherriff’s Deputy. No more commuting between Beacon Hills and Sacramento for her. Stiles knew they’d both been happy to finally give up the apartment that had been home away from home for so many years.

Slowly, everyone was finding their way back to Beacon Hills.

“When will you be able to bring her home?” Jackson asked, carefully holding Kelsey in the crook of his arm.

“One more day,” Erica said, stretching in her bed. “I’m fully healed but Kelsey still needs to be monitored. Dr. Patel wants to be sure everything is right with her. Or, well, as right as she can determine. She doesn’t have a baseline for newborn werewolves, you know?”

“Only good thing to come out of that mess with the witches. Ruined Christmas, but we got ourselves a doctor in our pocket until Boyd finishes up,” Lydia said with a faintly pleased smile.

Dr. Deepa Patel was one of the few medical personnel at Beacon Hills General who knew about the supernatural community. Fully human, she’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and the pack had been the only thing between her and a messy sacrificial death. As a thank you, she’d worked with Melissa to find a few other trustworthy people in the hospital who’d had their own brushes with something strange (not too hard to find in Beacon Hills) and roped them into what Stiles liked to call the Medical Illuminati. Victims of strange attacks were handled better now than they were in the past and the pack had a safe place to go when hurt, with very few questions asked, and no longer needed to bleed all over Deaton’s back room.

Scott liked not having to clean up buckets of blood anymore. It was a vast improvement all around.

Jackson passed Kelsey back to Erica, who cooed at her daughter softly. Boyd looked like the proudest man on the face of the planet and Stiles couldn’t help grinning at him.

The door to the room opened and Isaac ducked under Derek’s arm, the two paper cup carriers in his hands holding approximately eight cups of coffee.

“Did Allison leave?” Isaac asked. He was in a suit and tie, probably on the way into town for his job at a psychiatrist’s office. He was the youngest psychiatrist working there but Isaac had a way with people, especially children coming from abused homes, that made his boss overlook the unscheduled leave he needed to take here and there for pack problems.

“You just missed her,” Stiles said, taking a proffered coffee cup. “Dibs on her drink.”

Isaac rolled his eyes, shouldering past him. “Like you need more coffee right now. A nap would be better. What did you do? Work on the flight over?”

“Yes, but I was sprawled in a bed, no worries. Perks of flying in Tony Stark’s personal jet.”

Isaac shook his head. “Figures.”

Stiles didn’t get a chance to try to steal Allison’s drink because Derek got in his way, crowding close and kissing him hello. “You taste like mocha,” Stiles mumbled against his mouth.

“Hi,” Derek said. He rubbed one hand against Stiles’ neck, as if he could rub out the scent of New York. They both knew it was a lost cause and had been for years. Stiles had New York City ground deep into his pores.

“Hi.” Stiles leaned into Derek’s touch, just like he’d leaned into all the others when they’d tried to replace the scent of the East Coast with theirs. “Tony gave me a week.”

“Okay. I’ll make arrangements at the firehouse.”

It was summer and Derek’s volunteer fire job had long ago turned into a permanent position after he passed the tests for it. Stiles had met some of the crew a few times before. Each time he’d swung by, he’d brought along several grocery carts worth of food for the firehouse refrigerators as a silent thank you for the times people had swapped shifts with Derek while he was in town.

“I wish we could stay for a week but I’ve got a trial on Monday and Lydia has a grant deadline,” Jackson said.

“Are you guys leaving tonight?” Derek asked, looking over at them.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Stiles nodded. “We’ll do dinner out tonight, then. My treat.”

“Cool.”

Jackson and Lydia lived part-time in the Bay Area, with Jackson working out of a firm in San Francisco and Lydia having earned herself a teaching post at Berkeley along with research opportunities she refused to give up. Jackson kept saying they’d move back up north to Beacon Hills in a few years. Lydia was getting tired of the commute and Jackson was looking into the nuts and bolts of opening his own law practice.

“All right, I guess you get Allison’s coffee after all,” Isaac said, coming back over to hand Stiles a second cup.

Stiles swiped it from him and took a sip of the iced vanilla latte. Derek rolled his eyes. “You’re going to give yourself a caffeine headache.”

“No such thing,” Stiles said.

“Says you.”

“Says the amount of coffee I suck down on a daily basis.” Stiles poked Derek in the chest with a finger. “You think I’m bad? You should see how much Tony drinks.”

“I’d rather not talk about Tony while we’ve got you here.”

Stiles smiled softly at him, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Derek’s. “Whatever you want, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe.”

“How about snookums? Sugar pie? Honeybun?”

“This is why you need to cut back on the coffee.”

“Never gonna happen, sweetums.”

*

_Now_

“You’re retiring early.”

“I’m not retiring. Think of it as cutting back on hours by a lot.” Stiles paused. “A _lot_. But I’ll still be available for the requisite smack down of recalcitrant, bitter hunters in Montana. Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

(Stiles could never hide his glee when he got to give the Gallaghers an on-site visit. He relished his time in Big Sky country and savored that family’s hatred like it was fine wine.)

One side of Coulson’s mouth twitched upwards in an almost-smile. “You have an interesting definition of the word retire.”

“I’m naturally skilled that way in the English language. My Spanish, however, is still crappy.”

“I’ll make a note of it in your file. Have you told Fury you’re leaving yet?”

“…No?”

Coulson pointed at a small stack of papers at the corner of his desk. “Those are the forms I need you to fill out. They update your contact information, begin your internal transfer within S.H.I.E.L.D., and will inform Fury in a roundabout way that your location has changed.”

Stiles snatched up the papers like they might fall into the shredder at any moment and pet the top form reverently. “Oh thank god. I have never in my life been so happy to see paperwork.”

“I thought you might feel that way.” Coulson glanced at his computer screen and the information there. “I don’t think we’ll need you to come into a field office very often. What you do for us can be accomplished through video conferencing. In the event we need you onsite, we’ll provide transportation.”

“Gotcha. Nicole said she’ll take up my duties here. Has she talked about that with you yet?”

“We’ve had lunch.”

Stiles nodded, flipping through the forms in his hands. “Good, good.”

Since signing on with S.H.I.E.L.D. as a consultant, Stiles had been instrumental in helping them branch out—discreetly—into the supernatural world. He’d put them in touch with Nicole years ago because she was a point of contact for so many other wardens that it would have been stupid not to bring her in. Nicole impressed upon Coulson and Fury in one memorable meeting that if S.H.I.E.L.D. was going to be stepping foot into the supernatural world, then it needed to abide by warden laws.

That was essentially what S.H.I.E.L.D. had been doing, filling the holes dead wardens had left in the country and working to keep the supernatural world in check and stabilized. Fury had assigned Coulson and his ungerlings the job of figuring out the creation of yet another branch of agents dedicated to something shady and the brand new paperwork that went along with. Stiles was directly responsible for no less than fifty new forms people had to fill out in the event of possession, haunting, zombies, blood sacrifices, you name it, he’d seen it, and you can bet there was a form for it now.

He wasn’t going to miss writing up reports any time soon.

“Now, about your security clearance.”

Stiles looked up, eyes wide. “What about my security clearance? I thought I was, you know, cleared?”

“Standard policy is to reduce or negate it completely upon an agent’s retirement from S.H.I.E.L.D. but since you’ll still be in contact with the Avengers for the foreseeable future, we’ve opted to leave your clearance level where it is. We’ll revisit the issue in a year or so and see how things are trending at that point.”

“That’s good, right?”

“If we didn’t, Tony would hack our database and reverse the changes anyway.”

Stiles ducked his head and laughed. When it came to the game of who hacked who better, it was S.H.I.E.L.D. code monkeys: negative a thousand. Tony Stark: a trillion.

No contest.

*

_Eight years ago_

Stiles was going to miss the house in Malibu. It was an odd thing to think about, really. It wasn’t even his house, but he’d spent who knew how many hours there with Tony over the years. And Tony, well, that had been his home more than anywhere else, whether he admitted it or not. After everything that had happened recently with The Mandarin and the Ten Rings, Stiles couldn’t figure out why losing the Malibu house made him want to find a corner and a bottle of really expensive alcohol to drown his sorrows in.

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, staring blankly down at his hands. “Why would he do something like this?”

Stiles shared a look with Pepper that Steve missed, one born of shared headaches and years of stressful worry. While Steve looked worn out and wrecked, in old sweat pants and a threadbare T-shirt, Pepper was still in her pantsuit and Stiles hadn’t changed out of his own suit in two days.

The two of them had been here before, Pepper more than Stiles, waiting on news of Tony’s health, Tony’s life, Tony’s ability to defy the odds and survive (“You can’t get rid of me.” “Don’t sound so gleeful. It’s rude.” “Aw, don’t cry, Pep.”).

“He’s been like this since Afghanistan,” Pepper said. She shrugged one thin shoulder before kicking off her high heels and flexing her toes beneath the kitchen table. “He’ll take the risks, same as you, Steve. I know you remember what happened during the Chitauri attack.”

“That was a bomb. This was his body.” Steve ran a hand over his face tiredly, letting out a ragged little laugh. “What if we’d lost him?”

Both Pepper and Stiles heard the underlying thought beneath Steve’s words, both of them trained to look for what wasn’t being said. _What if I lost him?_

For Steve, who’d lost so much already, the last few weeks must have been hell. The Avengers were a team but Tony—Tony would always fly solo in some ways.

“He’s not going to change,” Stiles said bluntly, staring at Steve. His beer was half-full while Steve’s was empty. The super soldier couldn’t get drunk and rarely drank to begin with. Tonight he’d gone through a six pack of beer that did absolutely nothing for his state of mind. It was as much a tell as anything.

Steve clenched his teeth, closing his eyes. “I know.”

“That being said, he _has_ changed and you need to learn to come to terms with that or learn to let him go,” Pepper said, her voice soft with remembered experience.

“I don’t want to,” Steve confessed, opening his eyes to look at her. “Let him go, I mean.”

“Can you live with what he’s done?”

“I’m going to have to, aren’t I? So is he.”

Tony more than all of them because they weren’t the ones who’d submitted themselves to a high-risk, experimental procedure that altered his body on a molecular level. The Iron Man armor was as much a part of Tony now as his own skin, carried in the hollows of his bones and controlled by his mind. Tony thought the risk had been worth it at the time; necessary, even.

Stiles understood that mindset better than Pepper probably did, but he wasn’t someone who’d been in love with Tony in the past or who currently shared his bed. Objectivity was his specialty but that didn’t mean anyone cared for it in moments like this.

“Extremis nearly got him killed,” Steve said.

“No,” Stiles corrected. “Tony almost got himself killed. His life, his choice, and no matter how fucked up it seems now, it made sense to him at the time.”

Steve nodded, like that made perfect sense to him, right here, right now. It probably did. He’d flown a ship into the Arctic Ocean to save the world from further devastation once upon a time. It had cost him everything he knew. Stiles had a feeling that didn’t make it any easier for Steve to be on the receiving end of such a sacrifice.

“Jesus, it looks like a funeral in here. Who died?”

All three of them looked over at the entrance to the kitchen where Tony stood, dressed in dirty work clothes, with grease smudged across his face and his hair in disarray, the glow of the arc reactor shining through his tank top. His lab look, Stiles had dubbed it when he first started working for the man. It fit him oddly now and Stiles did his best not to think about why.

Stiles looked at Pepper. Pepper looked at Stiles. They put down their drinks and got to their feet wordlessly, with Pepper snagging her shoes from beneath the table and carrying them by hand. They headed out of the kitchen, slipping past Tony with pats on his shoulder and steely, quiet words in his ears.

“Talk to him, or I will get JARVIS to lock you out of the lab for a month,” Pepper said, pressing a dry kiss to Tony’s cheek.

“Rude,” Tony protested.

“What she said, only I’ll add on individual shareholder meetings every day for weeks until you cry mercy,” Stiles promised.

They left Steve and Tony to their own problems, the personal lives of the Avengers something they guarded zealously, even, at times, from themselves.

Stiles followed Pepper into the restricted access elevator at the end of the main hallway and quirked an eyebrow at her. “I’ve got alcohol, ice-cream, the latest movies streaming on my TV courtesy of JARVIS, and a spare room on my level.”

(They would get drunk and sleep on the couch at opposite ends, feet tangled together, and neither of them would cry. They’d been through this before too many times over the years and knew tears never changed a goddamn thing.

In the morning, Stiles would make breakfast for two, Pepper would go home to change, and they’d meet in her office before noon, ready to start the day all over again.)

“It’s a date,” Pepper said, nodding decisively.

*

_Thirteen years ago_

The sound of his bedroom window creaking open was familiar.

“I see you’re getting your creeper tendencies in before I leave,” Stiles said, not looking away from his computer.

“We need to talk.”

Stiles glanced over at where Derek stood by the now closed window, because in Northern California, winter might not come with snow, but it came with near-freezing cold. His bedroom was a little cooler now that some of the warmth had been sucked outside.

Stiles set the laptop aside on his bed, where he’d been sprawled for the past hour or so, figuring out his school and work schedule for his fourth semester of college.

“Okay,” Stiles said, drawing out the word. “What about?”

“How long you plan on being a warden.”

Stiles winced, knowing this conversation was long overdue ever since he’d made the choice to start studying with Deaton. “Are you kicking me out of the pack?”

Derek just gave him a _look_. “Sometimes I seriously don’t know how your brain works. I already told you that you’re welcome here. Where did you get me kicking you out from asking about your job?”

“Because they’re kind of intrinsically linked?”

Derek rolled his eyes and came around to sit on the bed next to Stiles. Stiles swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. This wasn’t a conversation he could have lying down. He studied Derek without hiding the fact that he was looking and wasn’t sure what he saw in the other man’s face.

This was only the second holiday season the pack had been through around the ebb and flow of college. Thanksgiving, and now Christmas, were a little awkward with people learning to interact again now that they’d had time to live beyond the confines of pack. Stiles knew Derek had offered every member of the pack the option of leaving for the big wide world (“If you love something, let it go.” “That is a shitty adage, Derek. Now shut up and stop making yourself miserable. None of us are leaving.” “Hear, hear, Erica.”) and Stiles had been present when every member of the pack had called Derek out on his stupidity.

Stiles had been asked, even after Derek had said he could stay, because Derek couldn’t let things go. Stiles had declined, vehemently, but he wondered if that was just for show and if this, right here, was the real conversation.

“I’ve been talking to Deaton. About what it means to be a warden,” Derek admitted.

“I thought you did that back when we were in high school? Remember? Scott found out, threw a fit, and still hasn’t forgiven me for picking, and I quote, a real dumbass way to protect the pack and our families, unquote.”

Derek hesitated a moment before answering. “I’m not the one with magic. It’s not my place to tell you what you can and can’t do with your life.”

“So that’s a no, then? You never talked to Deaton about wardens before now?”

“I never talked to him about what your place in the pack means.”

“Huh. Okay.” Stiles scrubbed a hand through his hair. He’d started growing it out, taking Tiana’s advice on how sometimes change could be a good thing. “So _are_ you kicking me out?”

Derek turned his head and glared at him. “No. Would you stop thinking that?”

Stiles accidentally hit Derek on the shoulder when he waved his arms around. “What the hell am I supposed to think? You spend all Christmas telling us it’s okay if we want to leave and then you come around asking about wardens right before I head back to school? Rude, man.”

“Wardens have to be neutral. You can’t be neutral if you have a pack.”

“I’m not giving you guys up.”

“Then how are you going to be a warden?”

Stiles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Derek, do you know why I chose to become a warden over finding some coven to attach myself to?”

Derek made a soft sound, but didn’t answer.

“People with magic need other people of magic. Kind of like how everyone in a pack needs each other. You either join up to be a card carrying member of a coven or you get discovered by a warden and offered a real crappy solo job of overseeing the supernatural world like magical police. Only we don’t get uniforms. You wouldn’t believe how disappointed I was when I found out I wasn’t getting a badge.”

“Stiles.”

“Look, I could say what I’m choosing to do is for the greater good, make a long ass speech about honor and loyalty, but the real reason why I’m doing this is to keep the pack safe. I didn’t lie to Scott when I told him my reasoning. It’s a fucking delicate balancing act, but it’s worth it.” Stiles chewed on his lip, staring down at his hands. “It’s about laws and codes, but it’s more than that. It’s about making sure everyone knows where the line is. If I can make those hunters who dedicate themselves to the eradication of werewolves see that it’s a bad fucking idea to come sniffing around your pack, then I’ll have done my job.”

“You’re not supposed to play favorites.”

“I’m biased, I know, I’m working on it, but tell me I’m wrong for doing this. Tell me I’m wrong for holding people accountable to their actions and making them think twice about gunning for you and everyone else in the pack,” Stiles said fiercely. “Because that’s what I’m doing as a warden. I’m making people think twice about choosing to burn an entire family to the ground and believe there won’t be any consequences to that action. Because there _will be_ consequences from here on out.”

They never talked about the Hale fire except in a stilted, round-about way. Driving head-on into that clusterfuck of memories was a surefire way to screw with Derek’s emotional stability. Stiles knew that, hell he’d known that when he was in high school after digging through his dad’s files on the case. Some things he knew better than to touch, but that didn’t mean he stopped thinking about them, and sometimes his mouth got away from him.

A multitude of emotions crossed Derek’s face and Stiles forced himself not to look away. He’d done enough hiding from Derek’s problems, from whatever it was between them that allowed Derek to talk to Stiles in ways he couldn’t with his betas. Stiles might be living on the East Coast now, but he wasn’t running away. Not anymore.

“I’m doing this for you but I can’t do it here,” Stiles said. He gave Derek a crooked smile, surprised at how calm he felt. “I can’t give the impression I’ve got a favorite wolf, you know?”

Stiles would be lying if he said he’d never thought about what Derek Hale tasted like. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t once jerked off to the thought of the older man holding him down and taking him apart with a good hard fuck. He’d be lying if he said he never thought about Derek, because thinking about Derek was the basis for every single choice he’d made in determining his own future ever since myth became reality after a walk in the woods.

Derek’s hand against his cheek was warm, supernatural heat spilling into Stiles. He leaned into the touch and didn’t close his eyes, watching as an internal fight played out in the open on Derek’s face, in Derek’s eyes.

“Okay,” Derek finally whispered.

Stiles reached up and wrapped his hand around Derek’s wrist, holding on tight. Because they’d been heading towards this for years and like hell was he backing down now. “Okay.”

When they kissed, it felt easy, like falling, like it was all they had left. And maybe it was, because Stiles had a plane to catch in the morning and Derek had an empty house to go home to until the next pack get-together months down the line. But right here, right now, there was only the taste of him on Stiles’ tongue, the hard line of heat pressed against him, and it felt right.

It felt like validation.

(Derek would come to New York many times while Stiles was in college, but he wouldn’t come by the café for another two years. It would take time before he was fully comfortable with the idea of Stiles becoming a warden and the life it entailed, but he’d get there in the end.)

They pulled apart and Stiles let Derek take most of his weight, tucking his face against the curve of the alpha’s throat like one of his betas would.

“I miss you,” Derek said, the words coming out low and sad, pressed against the top of Stiles’ head.

Stiles closed his eyes, curling his fingers tighter into the leather of Derek’s jacket. “I know. I miss you, too.”

Because leaving was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but it had to be done.

*

_Now_

Stiles stayed away from the Asgardian mead.

He knew his limits. A college education’s worth of drinking practice under his belt told Stiles that touching the golden liquid sloshing about in Thor’s mug would give him the worst hangover of his entire life. That didn’t mean he was staying away from everything else.

Pepper had outdone herself in putting together the going away party. Held on the floor Tony and Steve shared in Avengers Tower, she’d ordered enough food from half a dozen different restaurants to feed a small army (Stiles knew there would be no leftovers, not with Thor and Steve nibbling at every dish) and enough liquor to fill a kiddie pool.

(“Jacuzzi, Pepper! We need enough booze to fill a Jacuzzi!”

“Not on your life, Tony.”)

The party was a small gathering by their standards, which meant Tiana’s family, the Avengers, and a startling amount of S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel had invaded Avengers Tower to, in Thor’s immortal words, “DRINK AND BE MERRY!” the god of thunder boomed.

“We tried to teach him about the indoor voice but he just doesn’t get it,” Darcy muttered, staring bright-eyed across the room where Thor was holding court with the Warriors Three and Lady Sif.

Stiles accepted the drink Darcy shoved in his hand and set his empty glass down on the nearest flat surface (on the floor, under a side table). “Lost cause, Darcy. Total lost cause.”

“I kind of wish we didn’t win the clothes fight with Thor. I’m all about seeing naked gods in the kitchen when I first get up in the morning.”

Stiles knocked his drink against hers in a solidarity toast. “Jane would’ve murdered us all in our sleep if we lost that one.”

“Eh, would’ve been worth it.”

Darcy toddled off in her killer stilettos, shouting for her best friend. “Jane! Hey, Jane! I think you need another drink!”

Stiles watched her go and took a careful sip of his drink, coughing at the punch it packed. He didn’t know what it was, but Darcy’s drink creations were always killer.

Tony wandered over, with two glasses in hand. “You should put that down if you want to be standing by the end of the night. Take this instead.”

Tony swapped out Stiles’ drink for a tumbler half-filled with amber whiskey and Stiles curled around the easily identified alcohol with a sigh. “So much better.”

Tony laughed. “Admit it. You’re going to miss my whiskey stash.”

“It’ll be a good excuse to come drink you out of house and home.”

“Thor already does that.”

Not that Tony drank all that much anymore. Stiles was leaving with several crates of expensive bottles of alcohol from Tony’s personal collection worth a small fortune. He was going to have to fight off all comers once those arrived in California.

“You know you’ll miss us,” Tony said, pulling him in for a one-armed hug.

Stiles looked around at the people gathered to see him off, the raucous sound of the party making his ears ring. He’d spent a good chunk of his life with these people, tripping into their world by way of happenstance. He didn’t regret the experiences he’d had with them because who in their right mind would?

Some of them he’d miss more than others, but stoking Tony’s ego only made that ego worse.

“Maybe,” Stiles said. “Then again, maybe I’ll enjoy not having to hunt you down every week to get my job done.”

Tony smirked and saluted Stiles with his glass of whiskey. “You were one of the best. You and that baseball bat of yours.”

“Yeah, I was.”

He didn’t mind hanging it up for good, though.

Tony took a sip of whiskey before clapping him on the shoulder. “C’mon. Pepper had a cake flown out from that bakery in Paris you like. What say you and I go steal a piece before the horde descends?”

Stiles followed after Tony one last time with a smile on his face. “Sounds like a plan.”

*

_Fourteen years ago_

“So you’re Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles pulled his head out of the guest room’s closet and blinked owlishly at the teenager who bore a striking resemblance to Nicole. She wore a yellow sundress that stood out brightly against her dark skin, leather sandals, and an attitude that came from pure confidence. She reminded him of Lydia in a way, and Stiles determinedly forced back the sudden bout of homesickness.

“Tiana?” Stiles guessed hesitantly.

“In the flesh. My uncle said you gave up being part of a werewolf pack to come out here.”

“I came out here for college. I’m not giving anyone up.”

“Huh. So family’s important to you?”

Stiles lifted his chin in a stubborn manner. “Always.”

Tiana grinned. “Well, I don’t know about my mama, but I think you’ll fit right in with us just fine if you stick to your guns on that. Of course, it all depends on how well you can pull an espresso shot.”

(Stiles burnt the milk repeatedly on his first day at work, got yelled at by two bitchy customers, but by the end of the day, Haven Café started to feel like home. Mostly because of the people behind the counter manning the espresso machine with a little bit of magic, patiently showing Stiles how it was done.)

*

_Now_

He took the plane Tony had gifted him and flew to California on the Fourth of July. Watching as the Midwest rose into the Rockies before fading into the evergreen forests and dry fields of Northern California in summer, Stiles could only think that this was a long time coming.

He’d only taken a single suitcase with him when he left New York. He’d given his baseball bat to Tiana and the rest of his things would be shipped out later in the week. The plane, when it landed, got stored in a long-term hangar bay, paid in full for a year. Stiles opted for a taxi instead of a rental car and couldn’t stop grinning once they drove past the sign that said Welcome To Beacon Hills.

The town hadn’t changed all that much but it felt different. Or maybe it was him.

Main Street was still decked out in red, white and blue for the Fourth of July. Fireworks were illegal in most parts of California outside of the big city shows but that didn’t stop people from setting them off. It’d been years since he’d seen the fireworks here, hidden parties of sparklers and colorful explosions, and he was looking forward to seeing them again.

The taxi dropped him off in front of the Hale house and he tipped the driver with everything in his wallet.

“Man, this is two hundred bucks,” the guy said, staring at him in disbelief.

“Keep it,” Stiles said, and let the door slam shut.

The taxi wasn’t even halfway down the dirt driveway before the front door was opening and Derek stepped outside. “Stiles.”

Stiles grinned at him and waved. “Surprise? I’m a little early this year.”

“Do you hear me complaining?” Derek said, coming down the steps.

Stiles greeted Derek with a hard, deep kiss, twining his hands in the other man’s hair to pull him in as close as possible. When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathing a little heavily. Stiles sniffed loudly, popping his ears, and wrinkled his nose a little. “You smell like barbeque.”

“Family tradition. We’ve got three grills going in the backyard and enough meat to feed a small army.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you show me?”

Derek gave him an odd look but Stiles just smiled and pushed his way into the house. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Derek pick up his suitcase and dump it in the foyer.

“I knew I heard your heart beat,” Scott yelled from the tree line when Stiles made it out into the backyard. “Dude! You’re early! We should— _ow!_ ”

Isaac cackled as Scott doubled over from taking a lacrosse ball to the stomach. “Pay attention, McCall!”

A little girl with a mop of curly hair raced towards Stiles faster than a normal human toddler would, small arms outstretched. “Uncle Stiles!”

“Hey, munchkin,” Stiles said, swinging Kelsey up into his arms for a fierce hug. “How’s my favorite girl?”

She gave him a sticky kiss on the cheek, her face half-covered in ice-cream (and oh man, Stiles could _see_ the sugar levels in her rising) before wriggling to be put back down. Stiles let her go, watching as she raced back to her parents and her favorite stuffed animal. Erica and Boyd both waved at him but didn’t get up from their sprawl on the grass, the pair of them talking with a sunbathing Lydia.

Derek slipped past him, heading for the cooler, and Stiles took a moment to take it all in. To watch Isaac and Scott play a pick-up game of lacrosse. To watch Allison help his dad out on the grill while Melissa and Jackson methodically decimated the cheese and crackers plate. The scent of smoke and pine and savory food hung in the air, a multitude of conversations reaching Stiles’ ears.

“Here, Stiles. Catch.”

Derek tossed Stiles a beer, which he caught one-handed, palming off the twist-top. “Thanks.”

The smile on Derek’s face was easy and warm, the lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes just a little deeper. Derek was pushing forty and while he still looked young (courtesy of supernatural genes), the stress of their life, especially the early years, had carved traces into Derek’s body that only a trained eye could see.

Stiles would still see them even if he was blind.

Derek untwisted the cap on his own beer and chugged half of it. He wiped his mouth clean with the back of one hand, tilting the bottle in Stiles’ direction. “Don’t think I’m not happy to see you arrive early for your usual July visit, but when are you leaving so I know how many shifts I need to swap with the guys at the firehouse?”

(Because that’s how they had lived, on the shores of different oceans bracketed by metal airplane wings, always looking back. Phone calls and weekend visits and holidays shared in different cities. It hadn’t been easy, but Stiles knew, deep down in his bones, given the choice, he’d do it all over again the exact same way.)

Stiles let himself smile, let himself taste how the words felt in his mouth, like the best whiskey Tony ever poured him.

“I’m not.”

The sudden quiet in the backyard was heady and thick, rife with an electric tension that Stiles felt against his skin. Stiles watched as Derek very carefully put down his beer, cracks in the glass bottle spider-webbing away from where he’d gripped it. Stiles was peripherally aware of everyone looking at them, at him, but all he saw was Derek.

“You’re not leaving,” Derek said, the words sounding dragged out of him.

“I’m staying,” Stiles said simply. “It’s over. I’m done.”

Done with laying the groundwork of connections and debts and promises that would keep them safe from here on out. Done with building a reputation that would not be easily forgotten, either by hunters or wardens or everything and anything in between. Done with circling the gravitational pull of a group of superheroes who would always be so much more than he could handle, even on the best of days. He’d miss them, except Tony had given him a jet as a going away present and Stiles planned to put it to good use—eventually.

But most of that was in the past now and all the hard traveled roads, all the lonely steps had brought him here, to this grassy backyard he remembered from his teenage years, with people who were everything to him. Who were family.

Pack.

Stiles didn’t see Derek move, but he felt him. Felt the hands on his hips drag him in and close; the bruising pressure against his mouth as they kissed and kissed and _kissed_ and didn’t (couldn’t) let go. Stiles had to dig his heels into the ground to stay standing but he held onto Derek because he could now.

And fuck if he was letting go anytime soon because this? Right here in Derek’s arms with the too-warm heat of the rest of the pack pressing in around them?

This was home.

*

_Sixteen years ago_

“If you do this, there is no going back,” Deaton said.

Stiles swallowed thickly, hearing how his breath came and went too fast. How his heart beat wouldn’t slow down. He was dizzy with the implications of this choice but more than that was the gut-instinct feeling of knowing that doing this—becoming a warden—was the only way he could keep his pack safe from everything the world had to throw at them.

Judge, jury, and executioner.

It was worth it. It had to be.

He would make it be.

“I know,” Stiles said, voice coming out raw and viciously steady. “No turning back, right? I’m in. Let’s do this.”

“Then let’s begin.”

*

_Now_

Stiles Stilinski was sixteen when his life took a hard left turn down strange avenues. He was sixteen and young and desperate, and the desperate have a tendency to sell their souls. Stiles parceled his out in pieces over the years, building a way back to a wholeness he learned to live with, even if all anyone else could ever see were the patched over cracks that held him together and didn’t break as he grew older.

They told stories, those cracks, of a life lived and of lives lost and taken. Of what one person was willing to give up for the sake of keeping the only family he had safe the only way he knew how.

Stiles was sixteen when he went down a path no one else could follow and didn’t look back.

He was thirty-two when he came home for good.

*

_Later_

“Stay.”

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, omg, it is DONE!!! This is the absolute LAST story in the series, which, holy crap, is probably a good thing because I think if I had to do one more time jump story, I'd break my brain. 
> 
> I can't say enough how much I appreciate all the comments and everyone who read the stories and let me indulge myself in some seriously ridiculous AU crossover with a bunch of original characters!! Seriously, there are not enough words about everyone's kindness. You guys are so freaking awesome, you have no idea! If I had my way, there would be chocolate and booze for everyone, but instead, have all the internet hugs you can stand from me *HUGS*


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